


Take me down easy

by ridhima



Category: Carol (2015), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Loss, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridhima/pseuds/ridhima
Summary: Time robbed Crowley of Aziraphale. Now Crowley is a thief who steals renaissance paintings. Mystery around his past grows until he is forced to confront it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 6





	Take me down easy

It is just a tragedy sewn in the realm of time”, Crowley concluded as he rest his head and lingering thoughts inside a comforter big enough for two. He needs all this ample space to put his thoughts to sleep, too close and they start crawling under his skin until all melanin is replaced with ink and all the empty with Aziraphale.

“Azi, say something, please; please tell me about your day, about your strained coffee, how many hours of TV you watched, the cookie batter you once made. Give me your loud laugh and the pause after that, the head tilt when you suddenly realize something, the sound you make when you scratch your nose, how you always use your thumb to tuck your hair behind your ear. Please let me picture you laughing azi, did something or someone made you smile today azi? Are they making you laugh? Azi what did you read today? Azi I miss you, azi can you hear me? Azi please, please.” Crowley murmured as he lied alone in his bed, his arms clutching his knees.

This was Crowley’s scream to jump out of his helplessness, Azi wasn’t there, he hasn’t been for years now, and he can’t hear Crowley’s gasps. What Crowley is now is just some tethered misery that exists without Aziraphale.  
\-----------------  
Crowley woke up distinctively next morning, his feet dangling from the bed as he recalled the events of last night. Grief and Azi’s absence surmount him every morning, he holds its hand and carries it along like a tender offspring; which is to say that he has become one with it. Soon he began launching himself into the reality of what exists now when suddenly his phone rang.

“Mr. C, a new client has requested your services. Lately she has been rather fascinated by the self portrait of Vincent Van Gough and would like it in her possession. Your mission should you choose to accept it is to steal that painting which currently is in the possession of a man.” A husky lingering voice on the phone commanded.

“What the fuck is up with all this mission impossible rot, continue, Michael” etched Crowley

“You are funny Mr. C; the client will arrive at your flat with the number on the price and details of who you will be robbing by this evening.”

“You do know that I don’t steal paintings for the money, Michael”

“Yes Mr. C, if that were the case, you’d drive a better car and listen to better music”

“Don’t say a word about my Bentley and my weird obsession with indie- hipster music; you know how excited I got when I first learnt how to make a playlist”

“Calm down harry potter.” Michael hung up.

Crowley had a new job up his sleeve. Although no one knew the reason he became a thief, not even his close work place proximate, Michael. _Talk about honour among thieves._  
\--------------------------------  
In the next few hours, Crowley tidied up, scrubbing away another night of despair off of him. A scrubber has a simple formula, it attaches itself to dirt and sticks with it, slowly dissolving the dirt into it until the dirt loses its being and becomes one with a slimy pungent smelly liquid before it is washed away by an external flow.

He concluded that his sadness is like a scrubber, slowly absorbing and consuming him (the dirt) until it becomes impossible to tell him apart from his misery. Of course he chose to be the dirt, he chose to commit crimes, and he wanted to sin, no one knew why, not even his best friend Y.

An hour later, the doorbell buzzed, and before he could reach for the door, Y welcomed herself in.

“Crowley I have tea, I have some major tea on Timothée Chalamet , you have to meet me for coffee this evening and oh he can have my babies ”, Y’s presence lit up his apartment”

“Shall I remind you of the cringe pop star whose kids you wanted to have when we were 15? I guess his name was paim layne?” Crowley smirked.

“Everyone makes mistakes Crowley, like I did this morning when I thought maybe today soy milk will taste good! Anyway how is your _great depression_ coming along?”

Crowley laughed,” You do know that I am not facing a worldwide economic recession, but yes I do have a new job up my hand to distract me”.

“Stealing paintings isn’t a job and I know you are doing this because you saw that reality TV show about people who do bad things get negative points and go to the bad place”

“YA BASIC, SAID SHELLSTROP” Crowley and Y both shouted.

Y left some eggs in Crowley’s kitchen, before leaving she nudged his ear and said “don’t cry in front of your client, okay?”

“Oh buzz off you, and Timothée Chalamet already has a girlfriend “  
\------------------  
At 5pm, Crowley was ready in his black pants and a suit, Michael once told him that thieves are supposed to look effortless and not ‘a broody prick’ like Crowley usually does. He heard tires screech in his driveway and in the next minute he was out in the yard, holding out the door for his client.

“I am Carol, Carol Aird “, said the client while putting her right hand forward. She looked like she had lost something recently, it was recognizable; the vulnerability, the nakedness. Maybe Crowley had seen it on his own face before.

“I am Crowley, Anthony J Crowley, and welcome Ms. Aird” Crowley felt uneasy saying his own name out loud, it reminded him of the first time he heard Aziraphale call out his name; Crowley wanted to know what his name tasted like in Azi’s mouth

Carol welcomed herself in; she looked like the grace and splendour. Her perfume was driving out all the resentment from his flat. She looked very opulent; Crowley wondered why she’d get a painting stolen, she could’ve easily gotten it painted from any renowned artist.

“Ms. Aird, Michael told me about your interest in the self portrait of Vincent van Gogh, what makes you want me to steal it for you?”

“Michael told me you’d ask that, I supposed thieves only care about the job and the money, why does my occupation interest you? Michael also said that you’d say that you don’t do it for the money”.

“Ha! Yes Ms. I don’t steal for the money. I do steal because I want to sin (that’s about all he could tell) and if your greed for that painting superimposes with my motive, I shall do the job.”

“Committing sins, but you hardly reek of evil Mr. Crowley”

Crowley was suddenly silent, the only things he reeks off on most days is the absence of Aziraphale. _His absence had become a part of him and his presence was confined to the random nostalgia trips he took before hitting the abyss of loneliness._

Carol could sense the life being drained out of Crowley’s face. “Is that a Renoir artwork I see on your wall Mr?”

“Yes, carol, I bought a cheap rip off for aziraa- someone I knew. It sits with me now, missed the opportunity to give it to them; you know _“Late for this, late for that, when I die alone I’ll be on time.”_

Carol let out a sigh; she stopped playing with the beads of her bracelet. Some dismal spread from her temple to her eyes. Crowley knew that he had seen this vulnerability before, perhaps on his own face.

Carol stood up to explain the reason for the job

“ _Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get to the happiness inside him. Many people thought that he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic and eating paint can’t possibly correlate to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you are so unhappy that thinking painting your internal organs yellow is going to work, you will do it. It is really not different from falling in love or taking drugs. There is a great chance of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it, till the time they think there is still hope. Everyone has their yellow paint and that portrait is my yellow paint.”_

Crowley wanted to say something, maybe something like all the lonely people are the same. But that would be an objective statement. He understood that there were thousands of people as lonely as him, but that thought wasn’t consoling either.

“Ms. Aird, I will take the job” is all he managed.

“Very well, here is an envelope; you will find the address and the photograph of the person currently in possession of the portrait. Also there is cheque for you, for getting the job done inside.” Carol said sliding the envelope on Crowley’s glass table.

After carol left, Crowley closed his eyes, his head dug in his hands. He questioned himself, he wasn’t sure if he would survive Aziraphale, but he had no choice. _Do we survive things when there is no other choice?_  
\------------------  
At 8pm, Crowley sat on the staircase outside the cafe where he was supposed to meet Y. Earlier, he had gone inside only to find all the tables occupied. So, he hovered around a few tables hoping someone would get up and then pretended to search the bakery section while slyly keeping an eye on the tables. After three failed attempts, he finally sat on the staircase.

“Mr. Self proclaimed gay threat, why are you sitting here, let’s go in.” Y said as she arrived, and saw Crowley sitting outside.

“There are no seats Y, everyone seems to be peckish!”

As soon as Y took Crowley’s hand and entered the cafe, 3 tables got empty spontaneously.

“Really, now they’re leaving, common! I had to pretend to have an interest in HEALTHY BREAD for a seat. Y, shouldn’t you be arrested for abetting a criminal!”

“Abetting a criminal! You should be arrested for being a criminal!”

“Y, I am not a regular criminal, I am the sort of criminal who eats a lot of waffles, listens to neutral milk hotel, solves calculus just for fun, is really worried about climate change and occasionally records himself playing the guitar.”

“You are also a criminal who cries at night!” laughed Y.

Crowley burst out laughing; He knew that’s just how Y showed her concern. They were never the ones to send each other long messages full of purple heart characters, but they’d go for walks and she’d always hold his hand then and rest her head on his shoulder. Ordering a salad meant leaving chicken pieces for him to nibble, and dessert orders HAD TO include waffles. Y was there when Crowley got his iron braces, when he got them removed and will be there if the only iron he has are handcuffs around his wrists for being a thief.

After finishing their regular order of 2 coffees and 2 half shared desserts, they went to take Chinese takeout. Crowley was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, unpacking his chicken kun pao, when he saw a reserved sign on a table in a diner across the street. The observation made him smile, the kind of smile which is full of nostalgia.

“For the longest time, Aziraphale has held a special place in my heart, I keep this special place for him, just like that RESERVED sign on a quiet corner table in that diner. Even though I am sure that I will never see him again.”

In that moment Crowley understood a thing about nostalgia, _even if you are thinking or something good or bad, it leaves you a little emptier after._

Y didn’t say anything, she just listened intently. She remembered the time when they sat in the same spot, the day after Aziraphale left, how Crowley broke down crying, mumbling ‘ I love him Y, I love him’ and all she did was place her hands on his cheeks while he cried. She was there on the cold evenings when Crowley wanted to smoke just because he thought maybe smoke would reach out to all the sorrow inside him and he’d just easily expel them both. She was there when he drowsed himself with coffee because sometimes he’d have dreams where he was sitting next to Aziraphale and laughing. She saw him get quieter over the years. She wanted him to quit stealing and do something with his college degree. Sure Y and Crowley still shared laughs and often sang together with Crowley always messing up the lyrics. Sometimes she wished she could just grab his shoulders and shake all the sorrow off of him. Instead she buys him ice-cream, lets him fill her car with his pathetic ass singing, jokes about his heartbreak, always lets him take fries from her plate and mostly tolerates him talking about how many chole bhature he ate at once.

“Crowley, will you go to Timothée Chalamet’s house and steal him for me?”

“Correction. The question should be if I would go to his girlfriend’s house and steal him for you”  
\-------------------------  
After getting home, Crowley decided to start working on the job Ms. Carol gave him. He’d run a background on the man, read up on his property, and ask Michael to get a man to tail him to know his routine, hack into CCTVs. Also order a replica which he’d replace with the original during the time of theft.

He put on the song LAND LOCKED BLUES by bright eyes while he washed his face. As he stood, shirtless, in front of the mirror he gently pressed the scar under his left eye. For years he wondered how he got it until quite recently he had a spill of past memories. He then got reminded that a boy he once loved and was with when he was 15 threw a metal table piece at him in a fit of rage. He tried his best to recall what happened next and why he let that boy abuse him in the name of love multiple times.

_He did know it wouldn’t hurt so much, if Aziraphale were to touch it. Crowley never let anyone touch him however; he did starve for Azi to lay eyes on him. He wanted him to touch his shoulder blades, the back of his neck, hold his hands because they were this criminal’s salvation. He never got to kiss him, give him his exhales and inhale his. Although he had imagined how kissing him would hurt, immensely. He is so filled with his love for Azi, it feels like dying. Their love would mean death._

Later, Crowley sat down and picked up the envelope Ms. Carol had left. He saw the amount on the cheque and was astonished out of his mind. Next he reached out for the photo of the stranger, _land locked blues still playing in the background._ He turned it over and it was the boy, whose blood was filled in Crowley’s ventricles, the boy whose love penetrated his fragility, the boy whose blazing chaos Crowley had inhaled only to set him free, a z i r a p h a l e.

 _Cornor Oberst sang in the background “if you love something, give it away.’’ this is the last thing Crowley heard before he passed out._  
\-------------------------------  
Crowley lay half unconscious on the floor, and his face lay flat on the cold stone floor, his mouth open, eyes having the view from rock cold bottom. His eyes blinking slowly, _the blink was the pause and rewind button as he stifled through memories from years ago._

It was a cold winter evening; he was going to see Aziraphale after years then, Y was there too. He knew something would change that evening, he always knew it. When he saw azi, after years, he didn’t care if he were to forget the atomic number of iron or his favourite calculus equation. He didn’t care if he were to forget how to spell his name or hold a pen or how to walk or how to breathe. He felt like his heart was climbing monkey bars, leaping forth, intersections, parallels, entanglement, it was like falling, falling, falling. Y saw it on Crowley’s face before he even realized.

BLINK

“Crowley I just woke up, I am so late for breakfast already. I will eat cereal nevertheless”. Azi texted him a day later

“Do you want to have coffee?” asked Crowley mustering up some courage

“Why would I have coffee with cereal Crowley?”

“No. I meant with me of course.”

BLINK, HE TRIES TO GET OFF THE FLOOR

Crowley was waiting for Azi, his tongue was stretched out like a border and his mind was like a child who kept crossing it because he found the kites across alluring. Under a minute of azi walking in the cafe, he knew why borders when disrupted bring solace.

BLINK, HIS BODY FEELS HEAVIER THAN USUAL

Crowley and azi went to a bookshop; Crowley was standing across a book aisle from azi. He was writing poems for him from the corner of his eyes, trying to remember him. Azi smelled a book, flicked its pages and smiled when he saw Crowley looking.

“You are such a broody grunge Crowley’’ when azi said this, Crowley didn’t stop smiling for a week”

BLINK, HE CAN FEEL HIS HEART REACH HIS MOUTH

“I should thank your faulty earphones; they let me see you twice” Crowley said

“What does that mean?” Azi knew what it meant.

“Nothing, I just have fun talking to you, meeting you” Crowley said, he was afraid

“Well, that is good because I like that too” Crowley smiled when he heard this; he could also see azi look right back at him.

“Azi, to speak or to die?”

BLINK, CROWLEY TRANSFERS HIS WEIGHT TO HIS HANDS AND TRIES AGAIN

He always knew azi had to leave someday. _How do you mourn the loss of a love you never spoke out loud? Never felt with your own two hands?_  
\-------------------------------------  
 _Crowley knew that grief was like an amputation but digging through rumble of past memories was like haemophilia; you just bleed, bleed and bleed._ So he got up from the floor, stumbled his way to a couch, his legs shaking and him holding them saying, “It is alright, you will be okay, it is okay”. What was Crowley if not a sensible man under siege of his own reasoning?

He calmed himself down and tried to recollect everything. “The job, aziraphale, shit, aziraphale is the job.” He blurted out a huge exhale and ran his hands through his hair.  
He imagined aziraphale and the portrait hanging at his place. He wanted to know what he feels when he sees that painting. For a second he got worried,” what if just like Ms. Aird, it is azi’s yellow paint?” The thought that aziraphale might be in any dismal or harming himself or desolated made his gut wrench.

He then recollected he saw a photo of aziraphale earlier. He took it in his hands and stared at it for a while.

It _just made him wish he could have seen Azi one last time before he left._

_Maybe he would have asked him to hold is hand, maybe he would have made azi’s last wish come true, maybe he would have taken his face in between his hands and confessed all his secrets and guilt, maybe he would have asked Azi to hum his favourite song, maybe he would have cried. Maybe he’d have asked him to whisper some last words in his ears. Something he'd remember aziraphale by. Something to tell him that he will be okay. And then he’d have lived like he got to spend an eternity by his side._

Crowley shook the past off of his shoulders; he had a job that included stealing a painting from aziraphale’s house. He had his address in the envelope. Ms. Aird was paying him a whopping amount. He could just show up at his doorstep, the crime was easier. He knew Aziraphale (in a way). Stealing from someone you know is a greater sin he supposed. If he refused the job now, Michael would have him imprisoned or worse murdered. It took him another 5 minutes and he knew what he had to do. He immediately took some prints out of his laptop. Prepared a backpack with some water, his license, made some breakfast and stored it because he had to leave early tomorrow morning. He rubbed his hands, uncertain of what lied ahead but he wasn’t scared this time.

\---------------------------  
The next morning, Crowley was ready by 4 am. He wore his crisp white shirt after a very long time, he felt living was just a tad easier today. The part of job included delivering a package. Since he hadn’t foreseen the events to occur, he had no choice but to deliver the package at this odd hour.

Before leaving, he took the photo of aziraphale he found in the envelope, cut it horizontally, the perfect size to fit in his wallet. He then hurriedly scribbled something behind the photo, tucked it in his wallet and kept it in his left pocket, hit the road.

Arriving at the package delivery location, he wanted to be as discreet as possible. The sun still wasn’t out; he didn’t want to break in so soon. So instead he just left the package in the mailbox.

All that was left to do now was the job. He set out driving, after crossing the city, a long stretch of single path road lay ahead. It was so narrow he could see the trees from either side of the road intersecting above him. It was still early, the traffic lay low. Crowley could smell the dampness and the wind slap all the melancholy out of his cheeks.  
After driving for some definite kilometres, Crowley got out of his car. Since the traffic was still less, he didn’t worry about blocking the tiny road. The wind seemed to be floating in and out of his white shirt. _He took the cheque Ms. Aird had given him and simply tore it into two, flicked it away. It didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered_ anymore. He let out a huge smile, he was ready to confront his crimes and the reason he chose to commit them. Not once did he resent them. He closed his eyes and remembered:

_“ Dear aziraphale_   
_I am sorry, I never got to hold your hands and it is too late now. But today I read that when a fly accepts the pheromones put off by another fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the other fly does the same. When two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. If either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. Now that… is dedication._   
_so I have a new plan_   
_You have to leave now, I know_   
_I’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices and crimes_   
_I hope you do the same_   
_I will jay walk at every opportunity_   
_I will steal things_   
_I will be rude to strangers_   
_I hope you do the same_   
_I hope reincarnation is real_   
_I hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures_   
_I hope we are reborn as flies_   
_so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to._   
_I am sorry for not holding your hands because that would simply mean salvation.”_

Crowley launched himself into the reality, he was never more certain of what he had to do now. The sun was out and the tiny road saw faster moving traffic mostly from the opposite lane.

He started driving, because he didn’t want to be late again. He put on his favourite song, picked up speed. Stick shifting rhythmically from gears 2.3.4.5. The speed following back, 80. 90. 100. He slowly started turning the steering wheel towards the right, towards the incoming trail of cars. His feet, one slowly drifting apart from the clutch and other steadily digging in the accelerator, he closed his eyes, a smile spread across his face and then he _gently let the steering wheel go. The radio sang his favourite line,” some look like they’ll cry forever; tell me what their laughter means.”_

The package he delivered contained the print outs of photos of Timothée Chalamet he took out last night. He left them in Y’s mailbox

At the back of aziraphale’s photo Crowley had scribbled:  
 _“main tamam din ka thaka hua_  
 _tu tamam shabh ka jaaga hua_  
 _zara thehar ja is mod par, tere saath ek shaam to guzar loon”_

**Author's Note:**

> this was my first ever attempt at writing a fic. I really hope it comes across as half decent. The title is from the song take me down easy by james henry jr.  
> also, the lines crowley scribbled in the end are in Hindi . they roughly translate as:  
> " i spend all my days, tired  
> you've spent all these nights, up  
> let's just slow down for once and spend an evening together"


End file.
